


take a minute

by percoliver



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 01:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19415296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percoliver/pseuds/percoliver
Summary: based on tumblr user maggie anthonycrowley's post. flower shop/tattoo shop au





	take a minute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [questionablyevil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionablyevil/gifts).



If you saw that unlikely pair having lunch on the park bench across the street from their respective shops, as they do most days, you might be surprised to whom each belonged.

On the corner of the street was a pale, high windowed building, that, if one was to peer inside, was crammed wall-to-wall with luscious green, vivid pinks, sultry blues, and every color in between. A sweet scent wafted out of the open door, and the soft scratch of a vintage record player hummed Queen. AJC Floral was a popular destination for event planners, gardeners, lovers, and everyone in between - including the frequent college student, who would somehow always manage to arrive just as the owner was severely discounting his or her preferred houseplant over a spot, or a yellowed leaf. And if you looked carefully at the owner as he sends yet another plant out with a budding physicist, you'd see a soft smile on his face.

Directly adjacent to AJC Floral was a dark, squat building, with windows full of neon and flash art. Eden’s Ink kept odd hours, opening late into the night and closing far later, though when the shop was closed, you could often see a shadow or two silhouetted in the small apartment upstairs. However, if you managed to catch him when the shop was open, you'd find a large collection of art and books strewn about the surprisingly well-lit shop and a man hunched over his latest client, tattoo machine humming steadily. The books, the man would say, are decidedly _not_ for sale, though people were welcome to make an offer on the art.

The first man sat on that sturdy park bench was tall, lithe, and dressed head to toe in black, tattoos peeking out of his cuffs and collar and even sneaking up onto his face. He had his ankles lazily crossed in front of him and was settled deeply into the corner of the bench, hands tucked behind his head. He wore what looked to be very expensive sunglasses, and his nearly artificially red hair ruffled gently in the breeze.

The second man was somewhat shorter and squatter than the first, and looked quite a bit more comfortable in a thin cream sweater and decidedly _not_ crammed into the corner of a steel bench. His hands were clasped easily in front of him around a flask of what might have been tomato bisque. His white-blond hair curled wildly over itself, his eyes shone brightly in the afternoon sun, and a kind smile danced its way across his lips.

If you watched a little longer, you could see the two men stretch, pick themselves up, and cross the street. You might be surprised to see the tall one enter AJC Floral and the shorter slip into Eden's Ink.

At least, you might be, if you didn’t know them.

\---

Some amount of years before, the empty shop next door to AJC Floral had suddenly become occupied. From the outside, it seemed that from one day to the next, a tattoo shop had simply sprung up in the vacancy, proudly declaring itself open.

On that first day, Aziraphale sat impatiently on a barstool, unconsciously sketching a plant he'd seen in the next door window when he'd stepped out that morning for a coffee. Occasionally there'd be a scuffle outside and he'd jump, ready to introduce himself to whomever had ventured into his shop, but the bell above the door never rang. Six o'clock slipped by, the sun lowering in the sky, and Aziraphale sighed, resting his head against his hand as he idly corrected a line.

Then the doorbell jingled, and Aziraphale found himself in the company of a tall - and dare he say rather attractive - man wearing oddly dark sunglasses.

"Ah, hello!" Aziraphale started. "Welcome to Eden’s Ink! My name is Aziraphale…” he trailed off, seeing the man’s somewhat amused expression. “You're welcome to take a look in my flash books," he gestured lamely.

The man huffed. "Aziraphale? That's certainly a name, isn't it?" He said with a wry smile.

Aziraphale bristled. "Well, it is _my_ name. Are you interested in looking at my work today?"

The man laughed. "Sorry, no." He held out his hand. "Anthony J Crowley, I own the shop next door." Aziraphale took his hand and shook it warily. "I didn't mean to offend you or anything. I get that enough myself, Crowley and all..."

Aziraphale squinted. "You run AJC Floral? You don't look the type. And Anthony's not an uncommon name."

"No, but Crowley is, and that's what everyone calls me," he said. "Anyways, I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, see if you needed anything and all that."

"Well, thank you very much," Aziraphale said, straightening. "I'll let you know if I - actually, could you..." he trailed off, spinning his sketch around so Crowley could see. "I'd like to be able to look up some references for this, what's it called?"

For the first time since he'd walked in the store, Crowley's sunglasses slid down his nose as he peered over at the little sketch. Though he could only see a sliver of his irises, Aziraphale was struck by how brightly his hazel eyes shone - they bordered on orange, actually. As he stared, he those eyes locked onto his, wide and full of wonder and _golden_.

" _Kalanchoe blossfeldiana_ ," Crowley murmured.

"Bless you," Aziraphale said.

Crowley shot him a look. "Also called widow's thrill. You drew this?"

"I certainly did," Aziraphale answered, brightening. "Do you like it? I could probably do special pricing for neighbors- if you're interested, that is."

"It's beautiful," Crowley said. "I'm not sure about a tattoo, though, I'm not too keen on needles."

"Oh, you've not got any art already? That really is a pity." He caught Crowley's hand, turning it over in his own. "You've got such lovely skin - for ink, that is, very smooth and even..."

Crowley shifted but did not pull his hand away. "Well you don't look like you've got any either," he said, gesturing to his blank forearms, his unblemished collarbones.

"I do, actually," Aziraphale said, "they're just hidden from the public eye." He pulled his collar down just a fraction of an inch, exposing just a hint of ink.

"I see," Crowley said. He shifted again, this time drawing his hand out of Aziraphale's grasp. "Does it - does it hurt terribly, then?"

Aziraphale smiled. "Not terribly much, no."

"Hmmm," Crowley said. "That kalanchoe really is lovely. I'll have to think about it."

\---

The next afternoon, when Aziraphale finally pulled himself out of his little apartment to open his shop, he found that bright little plant on his doorstep - "for your reference," the little note read in a scrawl.

By sunup, Crowley would find four or five different sketches stuck up on his shop door, with a post it in neat handwriting asking if he might want to join him for lunch at that interesting-looking sushi joint across the street.

\---

It only took a week until it wasn't uncommon to find a nice new plant in Aziraphale's window, or a nice young man in dark sunglasses perched on a stool in the corner of Aziraphale's workstation, or a nice pair of gentlemen taking a stroll in the early evening.

"If you don't mind me asking," Crowley said warily on one of their evening walks, "where did your name come from?"

Aziraphale sighed and stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat. "I believe it's from an apocryphal account of the Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden. I don't know what it means or why it was chosen, but I've come to quite like it myself."

Crowley hummed. "'S nice, if you ask me."

Aziraphale looked at his companion and smiled. "Thank you."

He let the easy silence hang between them for a moment, then - "would you mind if I asked you a question as well?"

Crowley sighed. "The eyes?"

Aziraphale stiffened. "Well, yes."

"They've always looked like this," he said eventually. "I wear the sunglasses - well, I just don't like being stared at."

"Well," Aziraphale started hesitantly, "I think they're quite beautiful."

Crowley stared. "Really? You don't think they're creepy or unnatural?"

"Of course not, dear boy," Aziraphale said. "Of course not."

\---

It took another three months for Crowley to agree to let Aziraphale tattoo him, after sitting in on countless sessions, eyes rapt in attention.

At precisely six o'clock, Aziraphale found himself sitting at his ready station, sketches posted at key points around him. The shop door jingled, and he turned to see Crowley slinking on into the shop, looking rather nervous.

He watched as Crowley approached the tattoo chair and, after a moment or two, eased himself into it, shoulders hunched in on themselves. He looked up at Aziraphale through his dark sunglasses and nodded.

"My dear," Aziraphale said softly, "you don't have to do this, you know. I won't be disappointed."

Crowley took a shaky breath in. "I want to. I'm just nervous." He twisted his hands together. "I don't like needles."

"I know," Aziraphale murmured. "You don’t have to do it today, then, perhaps some other time..."

"No," Crowley said firmly. "I'm just psyching myself out. Have been for weeks. I've got to do this, else I never will."

"If you're sure..."

"I'm sure, angel," he snapped.

"Alright," Aziraphale said. A thought struck him - "well, we can do a test run? If you'd like."

Crowley stared. "Test run? I thought ink was permanent."

"I can do just a little line with no ink, just to show you how it feels. If it's too much, you haven't committed to anything, and we can let it go or try again later."

Crowley hummed nervously. "I suppose that's a good idea.."

"It is. Let's. You're still wanting it on your shoulder?"

"I- yes," Crowley answered. "I suppose I'll have to-"

"Yes, rather."

Crowley took a deep breath as if to steel himself, then began to unbutton his shirt with shaky fingers. He pulled it off his shoulders, and Aziraphale's mouth went dry.

Crowley's chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as he leaned back against the chair, eyes pinched shut underneath his glasses. And oh, it was wrong, but Aziraphale looked, and, God forbid, Aziraphale _wanted_. He so desperately wanted to reach out and touch that soft skin, run his fingers through his hair, _wanted_. But this was _Crowley_ , who sat in his beanbag chair and talked for hours about the new order of seeds he’d made, and enjoyed a nice vintage wine just as much as he did, and would show up at all hours just to exist in his space. He’d not had a friend - let alone a friend who understood him as Crowley did - for longer than he’d care to admit. Instead, before Crowley could notice whatever look was surely evident on Aziraphale's face, he carefully schooled his expression into professional concern.

“The left, then?” He asked, and Crowley nodded. Aziraphale slid his rolling chair into position as Crowley braced himself, gripping his arm rests. Aziraphale pulled on a clean pair of black latex gloves and wiped an alcohol swab somewhat further down Crowley’s arm than the actual tattoo would be. He picked up his tattoo machine and settled into position, aware of just how close they were. “Are you ready, my dear?”

Crowley nodded, but his face suggested otherwise. His eyes were closed tightly behind his sunglasses, sweat gathering at his hairline, skin devoid of color. And to top it all off, he didn’t seem to be breathing. “Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. “My dear?”

He set his tattoo machine down and, conscious of their closeness and Crowley’s lack of a shirt, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Crowley, we don’t have to do this today. Why don't we just take a minute-”

“Just do it!” Crowley gasped, slightly hysterical. “Just get it over with!”

Aziraphale shifted, determined. “I’m not tattooing you with you in this state. We need to take a minute-”

“No!” Crowley shouted, turning to Aziraphale sharply. “I don’t need a minute!” His chest was heaving, breath coming out in short pants.

Aziraphale carefully took his hand off Crowley’s shoulder and softly touched his cheek. “My dear,” he murmured. “Listen to yourself. You’re panicking. It’s okay.”

Crowley made a pained noise and slumped back into his seat, yanking off his sunglasses and digging into his eyes. He was shaking even as Aziraphale gathered him cautiously into his arms, unsure of his own boundaries.

“My dear, you need to breathe,” Aziraphale said into his hair. “It will pass, just _breathe_.”

Crowley took a huge gulp of air, and then another, and, steadily over the course of the next few minutes, managed to return his breathing to something that could pass as normal. Aziraphale very consciously peeled himself away and took a deep breath. Crowley looked up, eyes tinged with red. “Sorry,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, “I knew you weren’t comfortable getting a tattoo, I shouldn’t have rushed you.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, “you didn’t push me. I’m pushing myself. And I still want a tattoo, even after all that.”

Aziraphale stared down at him. “Are you sure?”

Crowley nodded. “If you’re still willing. I think I may have gotten it all out of my system…”

“Alright,” he said warily. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale pulled off his gloves and replaced them with a fresh pair. He cleaned that small patch of Crowley’s arm again, and picked up his tattoo machine. He looked Crowley in the eyes, grateful there was no barrier between them. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you.”

Aziraphale pushed the footswitch and the machine hummed to life. Crowley flinched, but when Aziraphale looked up at him, his face was filled with more determination than fear. He swiped vaseline on Crowley’s skin, lowered the needle and drew a steady, inkless line into him.

Crowley gasped, but let out a breathless laugh. “Oh,” he said. “That’s not terrible!”

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course not,” he said. “I would never do anything to you I thought you wouldn’t be able to bear. Do you wish to continue with the full tattoo?”

\---

Aziraphale cleaned up his workstation as Crowley peered down at his new tattoo in the slightly dingy shop mirror. He’d decided to leave the color for another session, as Crowley’s skin grew increasingly more irritated and Crowley looked increasingly more pained. Tiny flowers and leaves danced across his skin, strikingly bold and sweet at the same time.

Crowley stood up and slumped against the seat, eyes downcast. “Well, goodnight, angel. Thank you...for everything.”

Aziraphale chewed his lip. Crowley looked _exhausted_ , and a tattoo and a panic attack all in one evening can do that to a person, but the man standing in front of him looked deeper than bone tired. “Crowley,” he ventured, “do you think it’s quite safe for you to be driving home at this moment?”

Crowley shrugged, wincing at the shift of fabric against his raw skin. “Dunno,” he said. “I’ll probably be alright.”

“I live just upstairs,” Aziraphale said. “My sofa is rather comfortable, and you’re welcome to stay. Can’t offer you anything to drink, really, don’t want you to bleed, but I do have tea and biscuits.”

Crowley smiled softly. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

He looked _so_ beautiful, standing there with his shirt half-open, and even though Aziraphale couldn’t see his tattoo, he felt a rush of possession that this wonderful man had his ink - _his_ and _his alone_ \- on his body.

“It’s no imposition. None at all.”

Crowley looked up - those golden eyes shining brightly into his - and smiled. A rush of warmth spread from Aziraphale’s chest to the tips of his toes.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

\---

That night, Aziraphale and Crowley stayed up far later than strictly advisable, and if sometime around the witching hour they got into the wine, well, that was okay too.

\---

Crowley’s next six tattoos - spaced out over the course of two years - went very much the same, though those times Aziraphale closed the shop for the duration of the appointments. He thought it would get easier, but if Crowley wasn’t one stubborn bastard, Aziraphale wasn’t a tattoo artist.

Crowley didn’t, in all those years, even bother to venture into another tattoo shop.

Aziraphale would never admit it, but he liked that very much.

\---

Aziraphale woke to the obnoxious buzz of his doorbell. He groaned, running a hand over his face - who could it be at this time of day? He looked over at his little alarm clock- just past nine o'clock in the morning. Crowley should have opened by now, and he wasn't expecting company, was he?

The buzzer rang again, and he dragged himself out of bed to the door. He pressed talk - "hello?"

"Aziraphale," Crowley answered, sounding pained, "can you let me in? It's just-"

But the buzzer had already rang again and Aziraphale heard the heavy clunk of the lock and Crowley's heavy footsteps up his narrow stairway. He opened the door to Crowley's sorrowful face, and Crowley slumped against the doorframe.

"Why haven't you opened yet? Is something wrong?"

Crowley huffed, mouth upturned in a grimace. "I'm fine, the shop's fine, it's all fine. I mean, I've got a massive fucking headache, Anathema - you know Anathema, she's the one whose bike I ran over - well anyways we were out for a few drinks last night, and you know-"

"Crowley," Aziraphale cut in, as if he was allowed to carry on, he knew this conversation would only end up winding its way around to the end over the course of an hour, "what's wrong?"

Crowley sighed, stared at the ground, and pointedly tucked his hair behind his ear. "Angel, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it."

Aziraphale stared at the little snake coiled just below Crowley's ear, at the thin patina of blood and plasma that had yet to be cleaned off properly. He stared at the bruise that had formed right at his hairline, a bruise that certainly wouldn't have been there had _he_ been the one to put that ink on that beautiful face. He felt a pang of hurt somewhere behind his sternum, and he told himself that _it doesn’t matter, he’s not yours anyway._

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "I'm so sorry, Aziraphale, really. I hardly even remember getting it, and it's really all Anathema's fault, really..."

But Aziraphale wasn't listening. As Crowley rambled on, he lifted his hand to Crowley's face, and _so so gently_ traced the edges of that foreign ink. Somewhere in the background, Crowley fell silent. Aziraphale found the last of his resolve somewhere in a back cupboard.

"Well, I'm not exactly happy you got it," Aziraphale murmured, "especially that you let someone else ink you. But I have to say, my dear..." he shifted his gaze from that little snake to his eyes, "it does look quite nice."

Crowley's breath hitched. "You're not mad?"

"Maybe just a little." Aziraphale said. "It's not like we ever declared ourselves exclusive, but you did seem partial to my art, and I was under the impression that I was your artist...but no, I'm not really _mad_."

Crowley's face softened, then. "I wanted to be...exclusive," he said, "it really was an accident."

They stared at each other for just a moment too long, the shadows of Crowley’s eyes dancing behind the dark glasses. Aziraphale smiled sweetly, finally removing his hand from where it still rested on his cheek.

"Well," he mused, gently leading Crowley into the entryway and pushing the door shut, "I suppose I will just have to purchase this week's cut flowers from Mrs. Healy, won't I?"

"No!" Crowley cried, tattoo nearly forgotten. "You'd just be punishing yourself, angel, and your clients! How could you put those dull things in your shop, they'd wilt in a day, they're not cut out for the lighting-"

"Well alright then," Aziraphale interrupted. "Don't fuss, my dear, I won't. Although she did have some sunflowers in her window that looked _so_ lovely.."

Crowley clutched his chest, face aghast. "Don't you dare," he said, voice strained, "bring those - those - those _commercially bred_ sunflowers anywhere near my shop!"

Aziraphale chuckled, shaking his head slowly. "Alright, my dear," he sighed. "But you must let me give you some new art sometime soon." Crowley visibly deflated, collapsing into the nearest chair.

"Deal."

“Very good. Crêpes?”

\---

Crowley’s ninth tattoo was also a snake, curled up around his collarbones. Aziraphale hunched over Crowley’s shoulders, face screwed up in concentration. Crowley, for his part, seemed to be snoozing, mouth half open and eyes closed, sunglasses neatly folded on a nearby table. Aziraphale didn’t mind, of course, especially after the moment of anxiety they had dealt with earlier that day. The linework on this piece was especially intricate, and he needed his full concentration. He didn’t want to do this piece in two sessions, with a third for colorwork, but Crowley’d been bleeding a lot near the sensitive skin of his neck and he was starting to lose track of his linework. He sighed, putting his machine down to reach for yet another paper towel and more vaseline. When he turned back, he was met with Crowley’s piercing gold eyes and an upside down smile.

“Morning, angel.”

“It is quite late in the evening, my dear, as you well know.”

Crowley laughed and craned his neck, wincing. “Ah fuck, that hurts. How far are we?”

Aziraphale passed him a cracked mirror, and watched Crowley examine the damage. “We’re about thirty minutes out, I believe, I just have to finish up the mouth and go over a few of the lighter scales, if you can last that long.”

Crowley grimaced. “Let’s take the chance, shall we?”

Aziraphale nodded and resumed the tattoo, the only thing disrupting the silence between them being the intermittent buzz of the tattoo machine.

“What kind of tattoos do you have?”

Aziraphale jumped. He’d just slipped back into the trance he’d been working in for the last four hours, and luckily he hadn’t put the needle to skin at that very moment, but Crowley did have a rather large smear of vaseline on his neck now.

“I’m sorry?”

“What kind of tattoos do you have? It’s just that I’ve never seen any or heard you talk about them. You’ve obviously seen all of mine,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely with his free arm. “I’m curious.”

Aziraphale sniffed and decided talking was just as good of a distraction as sleeping to curb Crowley’s anxiety. “I have a few literary tattoos,” he said. “My first was Yorick, from Hamlet, and I have a few others in the same vein. They were mostly gifts from my artist friends - I daresay I have a lot of free art, and given away a lot of my own. Others were pieces artists had already created and wanted to put on me. All different styles, very patchwork.”

“Can I see them sometime?”

Aziraphale looked, then, at Crowley; upside down was an interesting vantage point. He was _so close_ , but not uncomfortably so, even for the average onlooker. “See them?”

“Why not?”

 _I’ve never shown them to anyone besides other artists,_ he wanted to say. _But all you had to do was ask._

“Maybe someday,” Aziraphale said.

\---

Later, buzzed and strewn about on various pieces of Aziraphale’s furniture, the pair sat in comfortable chitchat. Crowley still had his sunglasses off, which Aziraphale was secretly very grateful for, and he vaguely ignored whatever Crowley was currently talking about to look into his eyes instead, even if everything was slightly blurry.

“And, like I was saying about the orchids - angel?”

Aziraphale tried to focus his eyes, and failed. “Hmm?”

“You listening?”

Aziraphale snorted. “No.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and stretched languorously. His shirt was still unbuttoned halfway, chest wrapped in cling film.

“How about - how about you just show me _one_ of your tattoos, angel, huh? Would that be okay? Just the one? You obv- obvi- you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but, but, if you’re _nervous_ , or something - just one at a time?”

Aziraphale’s heart raced. He’d never been close to anyone else like this - the people he apprenticed with, and his artist friends from school - none of them wanted to see _his_ tattoos. They wanted to see Michael’s new art, and Uriel’s latest piece - even though it was _his_ body they were on. And they certainly never asked. Crowley wouldn’t push him to see, if he told him not to. Crowley certainly wouldn’t grab at his clothes to take a look for himself.

“Alright,” he said, cotton-mouthed. “Alright.”

He must have had some strange look on his face as he steadied himself on the coffee table and got to his feet, because Crowley gave him one of those _looks_ , and said “oh, angel, you don’t have to-”

“No, it’s okay,” Aziraphale said, head fuzzy but somehow still clearer than it had felt in ages. “I want to.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and grasped his sweater by the hem. He looked at Crowley, who was still looking at him so fondly, and pulled it off. He closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels.

“This one’s by Michael, they do some very popular work over in Chelsea, booked up years in advance,” he said, gesturing to a set of traditional scales, “and this one-”

But he stopped, because Crowley was _there_ , right in front of him, and when Aziraphale opened his eyes Crowley was staring wondrously right back, hands held hesitantly in front of him like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch.

“They’re beautiful,” he said.

“They’re all very talented artists-”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Crowley. “They’re beautiful cause they’re you.”

Aziraphale gulped. Crowley gestured slightly with his outstretched hands. “May I?”

Closing his eyes again, Aziraphale nodded. Cool fingers instantly connected to his sides, tracing softly over sharp lines and smooth skin, leaving sparks in their wake. Aziraphale gasped and made a strangled noise, and those fingers stopped in their tracks. His eyes snapped open, and Crowley’s eyes _burned_ into them.

“Alright?”

“Don’t…” Aziraphale whispered. “Don't stop…”

Crowley smiled, his hands growing bolder, those eyes full of wonder. “Angel, I-”

Aziraphale kissed him.

\---

Some amount of time after that came Crowley’s fifteenth tattoo - a thin, even band around the third finger of his left hand. Not an hour after that came Aziraphale’s first tattoo since opening his own shop - a thin, shaky band around his own.

Aziraphale had discovered Crowley had been just as nervous as he had been facing the business end of the tattoo machine, though certainly for different reasons. He’d practiced for months on apples and oranges and anything he could get his hands on, into the night and full around til the morning.

“My dear, anything you put on me I’ll cherish forever,” Aziraphale had said late one night, peering over Crowley’s shoulders as he was hunched over yet another piece of fruit.

“You _don’t like visible tattoos_ , angel, so this one has to be perfect,” he had stressed for what was quite possibly the millionth time. Aziraphale had laughed, kissed him on the head, and led him away from the shop, up the stairs, and to bed.

He wore it proudly.


End file.
